


i miss the sound of your voice; the loudest thing in my head

by emmbrancsxx0



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Castiel Prays, Castiel Speaks Enochian, Castiel/Dean Winchester First Kiss, Dean Winchester Prays to Castiel, DeanCas - Freeform, Destiel - Freeform, Enochian, First Kiss, I wanted to post this ahead of the premiere tomorrow because i'm a hoe for sadness, M/M, Michael Possessing Dean Winchester, Mutual Pining, POV Castiel, Pining, Possessed Dean Winchester, Post-Season/Series 13, Pre-Season/Series 14, References to hell, dean has a thing for brunettes, pro-tip - mary ann also has blue eyes just sayin, references to s04e01
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-11
Updated: 2018-10-11
Packaged: 2019-07-29 08:29:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16260479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmbrancsxx0/pseuds/emmbrancsxx0
Summary: Castiel can’t hear Dean’s prayers anymore.





	i miss the sound of your voice; the loudest thing in my head

_“I must admit I miss you quite terribly. The world is too quiet without you nearby.”  
_ _\- Lemony Snicket_

* * *

 

The worst of it, Castiel thought, was the silence. It came from everywhere, every direction, closing in and causing a rushing pressure in his ears. It was almost claustrophobic. 

Angel Radio was quiet. There wasn’t so much as a word about Michael or where he might be. There wasn’t a word about anything at all. The soft, vibrant colors and reverberations of atoms clashing together and rings turning around the desolate planets nestled into star clusters fell hushed, failing to communicate any messages from his few brothers and sisters that remained. Heaven held no answers. He wasn’t certain they knew of Michael’s presence in this world at all.

The bunker was quiet, too; empty. Most of the refugees from Apocalypse World were gone now, eager to see what this new place had to offer. Eager to feel the sun on their skin and become reacquainted with a life they knew before Michael ruined their world, until he razed this world as well. Only a handful of them remained, when the bunker had once been buzzing, and Castiel assumed they wouldn’t stick around for long. Bobby was still there, as were Mary and Jack. Sam. They mostly kept to themselves, holed up their rooms or in the library. Occasionally, the clacking of the keys on a laptop echoed against the walls, or the rustle of an antiquated turning page of a tome would shake the air like the fluttering of a bird’s wings. None of the books or the Internet held any answers.

Whenever anyone did speak, it was only to say a few words in whispered voices. Soft footsteps would tread down the halls, to the shower room or to the kitchen. Water would rush through the pipes. Coffee would hiss and swirl as it was poured into a mug. The crinkling of brown take out bags and styrofoam replaced the usual clattering of pots and pans that accompanied savory scented whiffs. Heads were kept down and eyes were averted whenever anyone would pass each other, as if saying anything at all would be useless—wasted breath. What good were more questions? What good were empty condolences when grief slowed even the sound of a heartbeat pulsing in one’s ears? 

But there was another kind of quiet, too. It was much closer to Castiel, felt in the turning wisps of his grace and in the marrow of his bones. It was a stillness so absolute he often forgot it wasn’t a part of him.

One month had gone by. One month without hearing Dean pray.

He’d tried. He’d listened out for Dean’s voice constantly, blocking out all else and focusing hard on finding Dean’s familiar tones in the vast nothingness. Part of him didn’t want to hear anything. He hoped Dean was asleep, his soul tucked away in some deep part of his mind so he wouldn’t have to subject himself to Michael’s will. The other part of Castiel was desperate to hear Dean again—hoping that Dean was trying to get through to him, was railing against Michael to regain control, to cast him out. 

There was nothing so far, but Castiel still listened. He would stand in the doorway of Dean’s bedroom, staring inside, just listening. The room hadn’t been touched since Dean left, and everyone but Castiel seemed to avoid it. He’d caught Sam there once while walking past it. He’d paused only briefly, shoulders sagging and head turned towards the opened door. He lingered for less than five seconds before squaring himself and moving on. But no one ever went inside, as if it were an exhibition at a museum, artifacts behind a rope of velvet. The weapons on display were just where they were left. An old, half empty bottle of whiskey sparkled golden in the late afternoon light streaming in from the window, dust hovering lazily in the sunbeams. The bed was unmade, sheets untucked and kicked to the side, a pillow dented out of shape from when Dean hugged it in the night. The chair that Castiel would sit in whenever he and Dean were in the room was still placed in the corner.

It felt less like a bedroom and more like a mausoleum. 

Castiel sighed, the urge to step fully inside overcoming him. It had before, but he could never bring himself to go through with it—not like he could with the Dean Cave, where he would sink into the armchair that Dean usually occupied and stared at his foggy reflection in the black mirror of the television monitor, waiting for Dean to speak to him. 

But today, the sensation was too great. He felt an invisible hand pushing him through the threshold. He slipped out of his shoes and took off his coat and suit jacket, tossing them haphazardly over the chair, and laid down in the bed. He was on his back, staring up at the ceiling with his hands folded over his stomach. His body relaxed into the mattress, forming around him and easing the tension from his muscles. It felt nice. He understood now why Dean loved it so much. 

After a while, it became less comfortable. He turned to his side, letting a heavy exhale escape him. He blinked at Dean’s desk, resting his cheek against the pillow. It smelt of Dean’s musky skin and sandalwood-scented shampoo. Castiel closed his eyes and turned more into it, letting Dean’s scent fill him up. It centered him, and at the same time threw him off balance. Momentarily, it felt as if Dean were there with him. His grace hummed like it did whenever Dean was near.

He heard something echo in his ears—far away and muffled, like it was carried across the water.

 _Cas_.

He opened his eyes.

“Castiel?”

Castiel lifted his head off the pillow to find Mary in the doorway. He blinked guilty a few times and shook away the products of his despairing imagination.

“What are you doing in here?” Mary asked gently, as if she already knew the answer.

Castiel breathed out again and sat up fully on the bed. “I wanted—I _hoped_ —to hear Dean praying. I . . . I thought being in here would make it easier.”

A subdued smile passed over Mary’s face, and she shoved her hands into the back pockets of her jeans. “You wanted to feel close to him,” she said astutely, pinpointing exactly what Castiel could not put a name to himself. Logically, he knew it was foolish. Dean was gone. There was no getting any closer to him now. 

He bent his knees to his chest and rested his arms across them. “Well, when you say it like that, it sounds silly.” 

“ _No_ ,” Mary cooed at once, and for a moment it seemed as though she might step into the room, but she stopped herself and settled her shoulder against the doorjamb instead. “No, Castiel. It isn’t silly. It’s normal. Sometimes I—,” she let out an exasperated, thoughtful huff, “I just sit in the Impala. I don’t even drive anywhere.” 

Castiel was surprised to hear that, mostly because he did the same. He thought Mary had been trying to avoid anything that reminded her of Dean, but he supposed she’d been grieving in ways he didn’t see. 

“I did that sometimes when I was first brought back, too. It made me feel, I dunno, closer to John, I guess. I read his journal, too. The one the boys had. It helped. It was just nice to hold something of his in my hands. Maybe that’s all you need to find, something to hold on to, you know?” 

He did know, he supposed. He just didn’t know if he’d ever find it.

“I miss him,” he admitted. He knew Mary missed him, too, but she didn’t say it aloud.

Silence fell again, weary and weighted, until at last Mary said, “So anyway, Sam asked me to come and find you. He thinks he may have found a lead on Michael.” _Michael_. Whenever they thought they were getting close, they referred to Michael. Never Dean. “There have been some pretty hefty miracles in a few podunk towns near the Colorado. Me and Bobby were gonna head out to one of the towns in a couple hours. Sam’s gonna try the other one. He thought maybe you or Jack would wanna go with.” 

She shrugged, half-hopeful, half-hapless. “Who knows? We might be getting warmer.”

Castiel feared this was another dead end. Or, worse, Dean had been to one of the towns and now he was long gone, halfway around the world now, leaving a cold trail in his wake. But doing something—anything at all—was better than sitting alone in an empty bunker, even though staying to muddle in grief was tempting. But Sam shouldn’t be alone, not in the state he’d been in these past weeks.

Besides, hearing the revving on the Impala’s engine and the chattering hum of people in roadhouses and truck stops might do him some good.

“I’ll get Jack,” he said, standing up and grabbing his coat off the chair and slipping back into his shoes.

“Okay,” Mary said, giving him a sweet smile that didn’t reach her eyes. By the time he slipped into his coat, she was gone. Castiel followed her out, pausing in the door to look over his shoulder at the vacant room.

He couldn’t feel the sensation of Dean’s presence anymore. He shook his head, half-wondering why he had felt it in the first place.

 

///

 

The lead had been a dead end, after all. As had been the one after that, and the one after that. Castiel could see how disheartened every false start was to his friends, how taxing it had been on them all, especially as the months dragged on. Whatever quietness there had been before had bled into every nook and cranny of the bunker. It consumed the shuffling of feet on tile and ate up what would be audible sighs. Still, they all went through the motions, all praying that one day, they’d find something tangible.

Mary and Bobby had driven through every state on the map by now, chasing hope. Ketch had followed a lead back to England, and enlisted the aid of some of his old contacts. Charlie and Rowena flew to Europe when they caught wind of something made promising by gigabytes and the point of a crystal falling on a map. Garth kept his ear to the ground for any information in his network of hunters, as well as rumors in the monster world from clan of werewolves. Jody and Donna kept an eye out for Dean’s familiar face through more official channels; Claire had met up with some hunters to spread the word; and Patience had promised to keep them privy to any relevant visions. 

Sam continued to leaf through books, having gone through the library twice before moving on to the records in the bunker’s basement. He set up alerts on his phone and computer for any keywords that might lead to Michael.

Jack, whose powers were gone thanks to Lucifer robbing him of his grace, trained as hunter under Sam and Bobby. He learned how to shoot a gun and wield a blade. He learned how to punch and kick and dodge. Like the others, he never spoke of Dean, but whenever the topic of Michael was broached, his fists would tighten in all of heaven and hell’s fury that he no longer held. Afterwards, when he thought no one was looking, he would get a remorseful look in his eyes. He blamed himself for what had happened. Castiel supposed that ran in the family. 

As for Castiel, he remained vigilant. He listened. These days, whenever he was in the bunker, he rarely left Dean’s room. Sometimes he would sit at the desk, staring straight at the blank wall. Other times, he would perch on his chair, twiddling his thumbs and waiting for the dense silence to be broken by Dean’s voice. More often that not, however, he would lay on Dean’s bed, searching for the voice that had lived inside his head for ten years. 

He didn’t consciously know when it had started, but one day he realized he wasn’t just waiting for Dean’s prayers. He was calling out himself, even though it was a useless endeavor.

 _Dean Dean Dean_ , he prayed, sending the name out into the ether so that it might be caught by waiting hands. _Dean Dean Dean_. Nothing was ever returned—not a word, not a feeling.

He’d taken to wearing Dean’s clothes, too. It started with just a flannel shirt he’d found in the hamper. He’d put in on a few weeks ago. It was dirty, and there was blood on the sleeve, but it still carried Dean’s scent. When the smell faded, he moved on to Dean’s robe hanging on the back of the door, and then the faded Metallica t-shirt in the closet, the ripped jeans folded in the drawer.

He knew he’d shocked Sam and Mary when they first saw him in Dean’s clothes, and for a moment a mournful look passed over Sam’s eyes. But neither of them ever said anything about it, and Castiel couldn’t bring himself to slip back into his suit and trenchcoat folded on the chair in Dean’s room. 

Fourteen weeks and three days into Dean’s absence, Castiel began going through the drawers in the desk. He wasn’t looking for anything particular, but instead idly sifted through the contents of Dean’s life—the miscellaneous odds and ends that didn’t seem important, but made up the clutter of a human existence. Some pens with dried up ink and missing caps and chewed off plastic clips. Pads of paper with ripped fringes in the binding from torn off pages and indecipherable indentations from words written on the page before. An empty flask, a rainbow colored slinky, a bottle of hand sanitizer with the cap open.

Under the bed, he found a box overflowing with DVDs and VHS tapes—some were movies that they’d watched together, and some they never got the chance to; many were what Castiel determined as porn. There was another box under the bed, too, this one smaller. It was filled with memories: photographs of Dean’s childhood, such as a family photo of the Winchesters in front of their home in Lawrence, and some of Dean’s adulthood. Pictures of himself and Sam smiling and laughing. Photos of Bobby, and Charlie, and Kevin, Ellen and Jo, Jody and Donna and Claire. There was a picture of Castiel, too, one that he didn’t know had even been taken. It was blurry and grainy, as if it had been taken on an old camera phone. He was sitting in the living room of Bobby’s old house, his brows pinched together as he focused on an opened book in his lap that had probably been lost to the fire when the home was destroyed. He was still wearing Jimmy Novak’s clothes. 

There were other things in the box, too. Some tokens Castiel didn’t recognize but must have held sentimental value to Dean. And something he did remember: the necklace Dean had worn years ago, the amulet that he’d let Castiel borrow in his search for God. Castiel picked it up by the rope, watching the miniature golden mask swing like a pendulum, feeling the small weight of it pulled by gravity. He placed it back in the box, wondering if Dean would consider this an invasion of privacy. But then again, Dean had always been more lenient with Castiel than with most with such things.

The last thing in the box was a leather-bound journal documenting his travels and experiences as a hunter. But it was more than that, more precious. It was Dean’s life. Castiel put the box on the mattress and sat on the floor next to the bed, pressing his back against the frame and propping the book up on his knees.

There were scribbled out words and drawings in the margins of monsters and amulets and idle doodles held within the journal. Castiel read some of the entries at random in Dean’s messy scrawl. He recalled what Mary had said about John’s journal, and he found she was right. It did help a little, easing the pain in some ways and doubling it in others to levels Castiel found he craved to feel more of. He read about the days he’d been a part of, and of the times he’d missed. He glossed over the details of the hunts and profiles of the monsters and their weaknesses. He was more interested in the thoughts that Dean had written down, those he’d kept to himself, some stated explicitly, others inferred, others he dared not put into words.

As he flipped through the pages, his own name caught his eye. He found a whole entry dedicated to himself, written more carefully than the others somehow. The grooves from the pen markings were deeper than the rest of the pages. It was dated to only a year ago, and was one of the last entries in the journal. He read it through, and then over again. He ran the tips of his fingers over the words, as if he could feel Dean writing them. It worked a little: he could feel Dean’s presence, the memory of him hovering just over his shoulder, so great that it made Castiel look around.

Dean wasn’t there. 

He should have been.

Castiel closed the journal and put it back in the box. He stood up and left the room, a fire suddenly lit under his feet. He couldn’t just sit there and do nothing anymore. Dean had written that Castiel always returned to them; he would ensure Dean would do the same.

 

///

 

A few weeks later, after a botched attempt at enlisting a group of demons to rescue Dean, there were reports in Lebanon about people being murdered. Their brains were liquidated, and their eyes burned out. It was all the typical signs of angel smiting. Sam mapped out the incidents and used his computer to find the most likely location radius of where the said angel might be.

None of them used the name Michael. None of them used the name Dean.

They broke into teams, Castiel going with Sam while Mary and Jack searched together. Bobby went alone. The plan was reconnaissance, not to engage Michael. They weren’t ready for that. They just needed to see for themselves if it was really him, or if another angel went rogue. Castiel doubted it would be the latter. All the angels were locked in heaven. 

He and Sam found an old warehouse on the outskirts of town. Castiel didn’t see any warding or protective markings on the outer walls, but Sam was determined to leave no stone unturned. Even though he must have known this would be another dead end. If Michael had been in Lebanon, he would be long gone by now. 

They moved through the shadowy building, listening out for any sign of another’s presence. The only sounds that reached them were the shuffling of their own shoes on the cracked concrete and the distant clunk of dripping water. It was all background noise, nothing substantial. Castiel easily tuned it out without even consciously deciding to. 

After a half hour of searching the building, Castiel tucked his blade back into his coat and gave a heavy sigh. The suddenness of it made Sam jump. “Sam, there’s no one here,” he said, frustrated more than anything at the moment.

Sam dropped his shoulders in acquiescence. “Yeah, maybe you’re right,” he admitted solemnly. “Maybe we should call Mom and Jack, see if they had any better luck.”

Castiel wouldn’t hold his breath.

“Come on, let’s go,” Sam said. As soon as they let their guards down and turned towards the exit, a wild shriek sounded from the catwalk above. They both looked up quickly, but it was too late. A form dropped down and landed on Sam, making him crash to the floor. Castiel called his name, and realized a woman was on top of Sam, beating him into the dusty floor with her fists. The wet sound of bones connecting was dull and thick, and Sam gave a strangled yell as he tried to shield himself.

Castiel rushed to his aid, grabbing the woman and throwing her off of Sam. She rolled a few feet away and sprang back to her feet, looking like she was ready to pounce again. Sam got up, too, his gun already in his hand and pointed at the woman. He seemed like he would shoot if she made a sudden movement.

“Sam, wait!” Castiel warned, grabbing him by the wrists to stay him.

He was finally able to get a better look at the woman, and he could perceive the visage beneath her flesh. She was a twisted, horrible thing. Her true face was more vial than any demon’s, resembling the nightmare creatures of the deep. Her wings were stunted and short, useless for flight. The light inside of her merely flickered. 

Still, he knew what she was.

Castiel gaped at her, horrified. He said, “She’s an angel.” 

Sam was taken aback. His mouth fell open. “She’s what? Who?” 

Castiel couldn’t look away from the woman, even though he wanted to. She was the ugliest thing he’d ever seen. “I don’t know. I’ve never seen anything like her. Sam, her face—.” He couldn’t finish the sentence. He couldn’t describe what he was seeing.

Instead, he said to the angel, “Who are you?” 

She didn’t answer. She only hissed at him, and he could see the way her vessel burned around her. It was stretched too thin, and it was only a matter of time before it failed. He realized that was the reason for the trail of bodies that had led them there. She was blazing too quickly out of each vessel she took. 

“Are you with Michael?” Sam demanded.

Something in the angel went rigid. She heard her master’s name and said, “ _OL ZIR A NOCO DE MICHAEL_.”

Sam blinked. “What was that, Enochian?” 

Castiel nodded. “She said she’s a servant of Michael.”

Sam thinned his lips and shifted his feet into a firmer stance. He knew he was staring down the enemy. “Where is he?”

She cocked her head to the side, but didn’t answer. Perhaps she was protecting Michael.

“What’s your name?” Castiel asked. 

Again, there was nothing. He squinted, and thought she wasn’t answering because she didn’t understand him. Testing the waters, he asked the same question again but in Enochian.

She said, “ _OL BARINU AG DOOAIN_.”

She had no name. 

He said in his native tongue, “ _Then who are you_?” 

She only repeated, “ _OL ZIR A NOCO DE MICHAEL_.”

Castiel looked at Sam, and saw his own uncertainty mirrored in his friend’s face.

 

///

 

They took the angel back to the bunker and secured her in the dungeon until they knew what to do with her.  She railed against her chains; trying to kick out of the ropes that tied her ankles to the chair, and pulled her arms as far as they could until the handcuffs prevented her from moving anymore.  She was like a trapped animal, rabid and feral and out for blood.

Castiel and Sam hovered in the open doorway, watching her. 

“What are you thinking?” Sam asked under his voice after some time.  He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned his shoulder into the doorway.  “You think there are more like her?”

Castiel thought of all the false starts they had these past months, all the leads that brought them nowhere, all the clues their friends chased to no avail.  It was possible—likely, even—that there were many more angels like her, and they’d been perusing them for months thinking they were after Michael. “Yeah,” he said, squinting at the angel again before having to look away. He couldn’t focus on her true face for very long.

“You think she knows where Michael is?”

Castiel sighed.  They weren’t that lucky.  “I doubt it. At least, not directly.  She’s most likely a low-level soldier.”  He had to stop a shudder when he heard his own words.   _Soldier_. Michael was building an army.

A muscle in Sam’s jaw jumped as he stared at her, and he seemed to be thinking carefully.  After a while, he decided, “Okay. First things first. We question her and figure out what she _does_ know.”

He started into the room, but Castiel held his hand out and caught him at the chest.  “Wait, Sam. I don’t think she speaks English.” They’d spoken enough in the car, and she never reacted except for when Castiel said something to her in Enochian.  He was satisfied enough that his earlier theory was correct.

Sam pinched his brows together.  “I thought angels were supposed to speak every language.”

“We do,” Castiel told him.  “But I don’t think that part of her is—,” he wasn’t quite sure what word to use, but he landed on, “developed.”  Sam’s forehead twitched into a deeper frown, so Castiel explained, “For a fully formed angel to come into being, it takes half a millennium—at least.  Michael did it in a matter of months.” 

It would explain this angel’s stunted wings and abhorrent face, her barely formed grace.  She was a rushed job. 

“So, what?” Sam asked.  “You’re saying she’s to you what cavemen were to us?”

The terms were too simplistic.  The Neanderthals were a precursor to humanity, an evolutionary attempt that didn’t quite work.  This was different. This subspecies came after Castiel’s own breed. And, if they were really were as numerous as he suspected, they could very well outnumber the angels left in heaven.  He didn’t know what that meant for his own dying kind, but he had a sinking feeling that it spelled their end. 

These angels weren’t primitive.  They were the future.

“I’m saying, this is something new.” 

It was too much.  Castiel couldn’t stand it.  He wanted to get away from the angel’s deformed face.  He wanted to remove himself from the threat she posed simply by existing.

The lines on Sam’s forehead smoothed out. He said, “You’re scared.” 

Castiel was scared. He was terrified, and he wanted to run. 

He left Sam alone in the doorway and headed towards Dean’s room, wishing to be drowned whole by his solitude.  It was precisely what he intended to do as he closed the door behind him and fell into Dean’s bed. 

It was too much.  All of it. Michael, his new breed of angels, the oncoming war, heaven’s failing power, Jack’s newfound humanity, Sam’s sadness and Mary’s pity.  Dean’s total and complete absence. The lack of his voice in Castiel’s head never seemed more prominent. 

He wanted it to stop. 

Desperate, he reached for the dusty bottle of bourbon under Dean’s bed.  He remembered the last time he tried to drink his problems away. He remembered the liquor store attendant he’d put to sleep as he drank whatever he could get his hands on; how he let the bottles smash on the floor with little regard for the mess he’d made.  He remembered how the feeling in his gut only got heavier, and whatever solace the alcohol might have given him, if any at all, was fleeting. He remembered the hangover. 

Still, this is what humans did when they needed to cope.  This was what Dean did. Maybe there was some merit to it.  Maybe he’d done it wrong before. He resolved to try it again, and get it right this time.

He cracked the top open and brought the stinging liquid to his lips.

 

///

 

He was on his third, thus far ineffective, bottle when he heard it.

 _Cas_.

Castiel bolted upright on Dean's bed, causing some amber liquid to slosh out of the bottle and dribble down the front of his shirt.  He blinked, mind turning sluggishly, and he regretted at once that he'd been wrong—the alcohol had been effective.

In fact, he began to blame it entirely until he heard the voice again. 

 _Cas_.

He rattled his head, hoping to shake away the fog.  No one was in the doorway.  He didn't hear footsteps echoing towards the room, intent on finding him.  The bunker was quiet, overwhelmingly so, and he realized he'd become used to that suffocating silence.  He'd adapted, like humans do, to the point where even his own thoughts were a blaring intrusion.

But this voice inside his head wasn't his own.  It was Dean's.  He'd know it in the dark. 

Castiel felt his heart slamming against his ribs, pulsing in his ears, threatening to jump into his throat to stifle his labored breaths.  He listened hard, reaching out with his grace and straining his human ears—anything that would bring the voice back to him. 

 _Cas, I—know if you—hear me, but—._  

Dean's voice cut in and out like a badly tuned radio, but to hear it at all sounded like music. 

"Dean."  He closed his eyes in focus and let the name spill off his tongue.  He couldn't recall the last time he'd heard it, the last time he'd spoken it.  It didn't matter now.  All the mattered was finding him, keeping his voice in his head.

 _Just—case you—I'm alive—need you—promise—come lookin' for me_.

Castiel set the bottle in his hands to his side on the bed.  It toppled over and spilled onto the floor, the heavy stream gurgling and gushing and splashing until it was reduced to a trickling.  He stood up on the bed, angling his head closer to the window high up on the wall, as if he were looking for more reception on a cell phone.  It was a ridiculous thought, and he was certain it wouldn't work at all until Dean's words came in clearer.

_Can't have you or Sammy or Mom or Jack gettin' hurt because of me, you understand?  I'm serious.  Just steer clear of Michael._

"You can't expect us to do that."  _You can't expect_ me _to do that_ , he thought, not now that he had proof Dean was still alive.

There was a pause, long enough that Castiel worried Dean was gone.  And then, _Cas_?

Something inside of him dropped.  He felt dizzy, like a delayed reaction to the whiskey.  There'd been something in Dean's voice.  Recognition, almost.  As if he'd been responding to Castiel.

He couldn't be.  Castiel began to drown that hope, unwilling to let it break to the surface to breathe. 

 _Cas, buddy, is that you_? 

"Dean!"

Castiel's skin raised as if responding to touch.  There was a presence in the room with him, or the shadow of one.  It made his heart stutter and eased his mind all at once.  It made his grace pulse brightly.  Dean.  It was Dean's presence.  He'd felt it in small doses, but he thought he'd only been imagining it out of sorrow.  How stupid he'd been!  Dean had been trying to reach out to him all this time.

 _Cas_!  Dean sounded overjoyed, and relieved, and weary, as if he'd fallen into the comfort of his own bed after a trying day.

"Dean, you can hear me?" Castiel asked, just to ensure he wasn't actually just drunk.

_Yeah!  Yeah, I can hear you!  Damn, it's good to hear your voice!_

There was laughter in his tone, and Castiel felt it smooth out all rips and tears he'd acquired inside of him since the day Dean left.

But when the initial shock and elation dwindled, they left confusion in their wake.  "How—?"

Dean seemed to anticipate the question.  _Angel Radio, I guess_.

Castiel squinted.  "Dean, that isn't possible.  The human soul of an occupied vessel can't access an angel's grace—especially not that of an archangel."

 _I dunno what to tell you, Cas.  I did.  Wasn't easy, but I did_.

Of course.  That was Dean Winchester.  He was no ordinary human soul.  Of course he'd find a way where no one else could.  Of course he'd beat the odds.  Of course.  Castiel was in awe of him. 

Then again, that didn't mean Michael wasn't listening in.  Castiel realized it with a dread that shivered down his spine like a drop of chilled water.  "Michael—can he hear us?" 

 _I don't know_ , said Dean.  _He's kinda, uh, distracted right now.  Maybe that's why I was finally able to get through to you._

Castiel didn't want to think about what that meant, but he knew Michael wouldn't be distracted for long.  They had to make this time count.  "Dean, where are you?"

 _I don't know_.

Castiel gritted his teeth.  He remembered what Dean had said before, about not looking for him.  "Damn it, Dean!"

 _No, I really don't know_! Dean promised, sounding sincere.  _He's had me locked up pretty tight.  Put me on some fake, low-rate Hawaiian vacation or somethin'.  Looks like I'm the set of friggin’ Gilligan’s Island. Mary Ann isn’t even here; it sucks!_

It was good to know Dean hadn’t allowed this experience to change him too much. “I assumed you’d rather fantasize about Ginger.” 

 _Yeah, well, what can I say? I got a thing for brunettes._  

Castiel didn't mean to laugh.  He didn't know what he was laughing at.  Nothing about this situation was cause for it.  And yet, it flooded out of him like a wave, sounding just as thick and wet.  He could even taste salt.  When reined himself in, he could still feel it in his chest, foamy with white lace as it swelled up again and crashed against his ribcage.

_Don't laugh, Cas!  It's not funny!_

Castiel hummed, urging himself to feel the appropriate emotion the situation called for.  "No, it's just," he said, closing his eyes into it again and blocking out all else.  "It's good to hear you, too, Dean." 

There was another pause, this time longer than before.  Castiel's gut swam unsurely.  Perhaps he shouldn't have said anything.

 _Cas_? Dean said at last in a small voice.  _Cas, you still there_?

"Dean?" Castiel panicked.  His fists tensed at his sides, desperate to grab hold of Dean and keep him there.  The only thing they caught was air. 

_Cas?  Castiel?  Can you hear me?_

He sounded panicked, and very far away now.

_You—with me?  Cas?  Can—hear me?_

The sensation of his presence ebbed away on a lazy gust of wind.

"Dean, listen to me, we're going to find you," he called, like raising his voice would do anything at all.  Perhaps what he lacked in reception, he made up for in determination.  "We're going to get you out of this, Dean." 

 _Cas?_  

"I'm going to find you."

He couldn't hear Dean's voice anymore, nor could he feel him in the room.  It hollowed out a hole in him deeper than it had the first time Dean left. 

Sighing, he dropped back down to the bed.  He twisted his fists in the sheets beneath him, needing something to hold on to.  When that didn't satisfy him, he grabbed the pillow behind him and hugged it to his chest.  He rested his chin on top of it.

It smelled like Dean again.

He only allowed himself a moment to catch his bearings.  Dean was alive.  Dean needed help.  And all Castiel had been doing was sitting around feeling sorry for himself.  Not anymore.  Dean's voice guided him like the glow of a lighthouse.  Castiel would weather whatever storm to reach him.

He left Dean's room, pausing only briefly to collect his angel blade among his clothes on the chair.  The weight of it in his fist was light and sure as he flew down the hallways towards the dungeon.

He had to pass through the library to get there, where Sam and Jack were sitting opposite each other with a gun cleaning set on the table between them. Jack was putting the pieces of a pistol back together, his hands slow and uncertain in his tutelage.  "Good," he heard Sam saying.  "Looks like you’re getting the hang of—Cas?" 

Jack turned around in his chair to show his triumphant grin.  "Castiel.  I can put a gun back together."

It was such a simple accomplishment, but it was one Jack was so proud of, and it stayed Castiel momentarily.  He softened, dropping some of the tension in his shoulders.  The blade in his hand began to warm to his touch.  "That's good, Jack," he said, only managing a small smile before his eyes flickered across the table to Sam.

"I spoke to Dean," he said without preamble.

At once, Sam's features shifted, bringing forward the despair and anxiety that he'd tucked away just moments before.  But there was something else in his expression, too.  Surprise, Castiel thought.  Maybe something a little more hopeful, too.  "What?" he asked, breathless, as he stood up from the table.  The ends of his chair whined against the floor as they moved, and the table made a gentle whispering sound as he slid his fingers along the top to round it.  "When?  How?"

"Just now," Castiel told him.  Jack had stood up, too, his pride replaced with determination.  "He was—praying to me," he went on, not knowing how else to place it.  "But he was able to hear me, too.  He's somehow tapped into Michael's grace, but it didn't last long.  Only while Michael's attention was elsewhere." 

Sam let out a small noise that might have been a laugh.  His face was more alive than Castiel had seen it in months, and some color was returning to his cheeks.  "If he can do that, maybe he can regain control long enough to kick Michael out." 

"But Michael would have to be distracted," Jack said, "wouldn't he?"

Sam tilted his head to the side quickly, considering it.  "Or weakened." 

Castiel saw Jack's eyes alight with a no doubt reckless idea, but before he could say anything, Sam turned back to him.  "Cas, did he, uh, say where he was?  Where we can find him?"

Castiel shook his head, wondering if he should tell Sam that Dean didn't want them looking for him.  Doing so would serve no purpose.  None of them would listen to the warning, anyway, himself included.  Remembering the blade in his hand, he readjusted his grip.  "That's what I'm going to find out." 

He started to move forward again, but Sam put his hand on his chest to stop him.  "Wait, Cas.  You said she wouldn’t know where Michael is.”

"No, but she's one of his soldiers.  She has her orders.  She may be able to get us one step closer to finding where Dean will be next." 

Sam swiveled his head in what could be interpreted as a nod.  His gaze flashed warily to the angel blade.  "Okay, but you sure you're up for this?  I mean, she's an angel." 

It was true, even if it was in the barest sense.  She was technically his sister, and angels were in short supply.  But he couldn't afford to care about that.  Dean needed him.  He steeled himself, baring his teeth.  "Yes," he said, and quickly walked around Sam.

Both Sam and Jack hastened after him.

“ _Where is your superior?_ ” he asked in Enochian as soon as he went into the dungeon, no prelude necessary.  He didn’t expect an answer, and he didn’t get one besides a glare.  Still, the recalcitrance caused his frustration to mount. He tightened his fist around his blade, barely feeling the metal, barely hearing the way it sang to him.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Sam take a step forward, and then stop abruptly.  He squared his shoulders and glowered at the angel. Jack remained still, his eyes flashing from one person to the other.

“ _Where do you get your orders?_ ” Castiel tried again.  “ _Not heaven.  It’s still closed.  Michael and his army are on earth, which means the commander of your garrison is on earth.  Where are they stationed?_ ”

He considered it might be close.  This angel wouldn’t wander very far from her garrison without reason, or unless she were ordered to do so.  But it was more likely that they were near Lebanon. 

The angel looked up at him, still scowling.  It was hard to look at her directly—at her fractured wisps of grace and the mangy form beneath her vessel’s skin.  But he forced himself to. He wouldn’t get far if he showed weakness. 

Just on the edge of reality, he flexed out his wings.  As broken deadweight, they were still far more intimidating than hers, the stumpy and mangled things they were.  She flinched as if she were trying to put space between them, her chains rattling in the movement.

“ _Abomination_ ,” she spat at him.

He grit his teeth, fist tightening around the handle of his blade.

“ _TELOCVOVIM_.” Fallen one. 

“Castiel, what’s she saying?” Jack asked.

Castiel sighed, and half-glanced over his shoulder.  “She’s insulting me.”

Sam pulled his brows together in response, like it was the furthest thing from the answer he’d been expecting, and Jack only stared.

Castiel turned back to the angel and leveled the tip of his blade at her chest.  He wouldn’t use it. It wouldn’t do any good questioning a corpse. Besides, Sam was right: she was angel—as decrepit and horrible as she was.  She was an angel, and her power could aid heaven. 

But he hoped she thought he was willing to kill her for answers. 

“ _Where can I find Michael?_ ”

As if automatically reacting to the name, she hissed, “ _OL ZIR A NOCO DE MICHAEL_.”

He almost rolled his eyes.  “ _I know. How does your superior contact him_?”

She looked pointedly down at his blade, and then back to him.  “ _I’d sooner perish than tell you, TELOCVOVIM_.”

Castiel considered it.  He lowered his arm and half-glanced over his shoulder.  “Sam, take Jack back to library. I need five minutes alone with her.”

Sam hesitated, perhaps remembering Donatello.  “Why?”

Castiel turned around fully and kept his expression impassive.  Sam already knew why. His eyes flitted back to the angel briefly.  “You sure she won’t—? You sure we’ll still be able to talk to her after?” 

Some of the forced blankness left his features as he thought about it.  If this were another angel, the answer would be yes, undoubtedly. But one of Michael’s half-formed creatures?  Castiel wasn’t certain. But, “It’s a risk we have to take.” What use was talking to her, after all, if not for information on Michael’s location?

Sam seemed to agree.  His Adam’s apple jumped as he swallowed, and he took Jack by the shoulders and ushered him out.  Jack stayed quiet, but his quizzical eyes remained on Castiel and the angel until the door was shut. 

Preparing himself, Castiel turned around again.  He couldn’t hear Sam and Jack’s fading footsteps from beyond the heavy metal door but he assumed they were gone.  He moved around the chair to stand behind the angel, and she flinched despite herself at not being able to see him. 

“ _I’ll ask again.  Tell me where your orders come from_.”

He saw the angel’s fists tighten around the arms of the chair, and she said nothing.  He let out a despondent breath. He’d hoped she would give him another option. 

Knowing it was useless to try again, he steadied his breathing and brought his fingers to her temples.  She tensed beneath him. He let his grace build in his core and directed it towards his hands, as easily and seamlessly as moving a limb.  He pushed it forward, feeling his vessel fall away as his grace hummed against the thin membrane of his skin. He wove himself into her grace and sought out her thoughts.  Distantly, he knew she was screaming, but his ears were deaf to it. 

It was a dark place inside her mind—every thought shallow and not her own.  They were instinctual instead of personal, as if her sole purpose was to follow commands.  Theoretically, it wasn’t so far off from the life of a true angel, but somehow it felt as if they were a different species entirely.  She was baser, more animalistic. There was nothing individual about her—just a cog in a machine, a worker ant in a colony of thousands. 

It made it easier to find the information he sought.  He gleaned flashes of information, and learned her orders.  She was stationed in Lebanon with a flight of six other angels.  They were there to keep tabs on the hunters associated with the bunker and report back with information of their comings and goings.  The bunker was being spied on. 

He dug deeper, stretching into the far corners of her consciousness to find out just who she reported to.  He found there was no one. Her purpose was simply known, as it was with the rest of their flight. They shared an almost hive mind, weaved together through their own interconnected version of Angel Radio. 

However, they did report back to someone, using the same form of communication. He couldn’t tell if it was another angel or Michael.

He focused on the connection, looking for the path of the telepathy, following the reports until they led him to their destination.  Until they led him to—. 

He reeled backwards abruptly, his grace snapping back into his vessel as if on a cord and causing his head to spin dizzily as it tried to readjust.  He hardly registered the bright light fading from the angel’s eyes and open mouth, barely registered her panting breaths. He was too focused on his own.  They sounded too loud in the concrete quiet around him, and in the rattling emptiness in his chest. 

“Why would Michael go there?” he said, hearing his voice shake.  He knew, without a doubt, that it’s where he would find Michael. It was the only explanation.

He stumbled around to the front of the angel, his grace still trying to reorient inside his vessel.  It caused his fingers to twitch at his sides. “ _Why there_?” His voice was desperate and he didn’t care. 

The angel’s breath didn’t even out. She continued to pant as if wounded, but still she sneered, “ _A SALAMANN DE A LEVITHMONG_.”

The barn. 

“ _Yes._ _Why there_?” 

It was possible she didn’t know.  After all, she didn’t even know where the barn was located. 

Laboriously and brokenly, she said, “ _His vessel.  It’s said it draws him there_.”

Castiel wasn’t certain how he reacted outwardly, but his heart stopped and quickly started up again into a rapid tattoo, as if to make up for the lost beat.  He spun around swiftly and rushed from the room, slamming the door behind him. He paused, trying to force calm. He leaned his forehead against the cold door. 

There were footsteps coming around the corner.  He allowed himself another moment before composing himself and awaiting Sam’s arrival.  When he came into view, Sam halted. After a beat, he gestured his arms out like he was confused as to why Castiel hadn’t started speaking yet.  “Anything?”

Castiel paused, knowing he had to tell him something.  He couldn’t tell him everything. There was no saying how he would react, and it could ruin the plan forming in Castiel’s mind.  “There are more angels spread through Lebanon. They’re spying on us.” 

Sam’s eyes went wide, but then he nodded.  “Okay. Anything else?” 

Castiel’s gut twisted.  He didn’t like lying to Sam.  “No. She didn’t know anything.” 

At once, Sam’s shoulders hunched in haplessness, but he took it in stride.  “Okay,” he repeated, half-turning away to leave. He let out a harsh, bitter sound that could have been a scoff.  “Back to square one.” He stayed long enough to pull himself back together, and then he was gone. 

Castiel watched him go, and then stared at the empty hallway for a little while longer.  Guilt was already clawing at him for lying to Sam, but it was necessary. Sam would forgive him when he brought Dean home.

 

///

 

It was late, the lights throughout the bunker dimmed for the night, not a sound to be heard but for the air rattling through the vents in the ceilings. Even the world outside felt silent—too dark and shadowed, as if the lights and chatter of the nearby town were oceans away instead of miles. 

Castiel padded softly through the corridors, trying to be as light on his feet as possible. He looked in on the angel before he left, and found her vessel spent. It sagged in the chair, hollow eyes staring blankly. Trapped inside by her chains, the angel perished with it. Her decrepit wings were burned into the wall behind her.

Castiel continued onwards. 

When he reached the heavy door to the garage, he winced at the groan it made. It seemed to echo throughout every inch of the bunker, and for a moment he remained in the doorway, holding his breath, listening out for anyone. When he was certain no one had been disturbed, he moved into the garage, not bothering to shut the door behind him. 

He jostled down the stairs and through the room, pausing only once when he passed the Impala. Briefly, he considered driving it, but it wouldn’t feel right. Sitting in the back seat was one thing, but his place wasn’t behind its wheel. It had always been Dean’s, and it would be again.

Still, Castiel wondered if he’d ever get the chance to even look at the car again; and that thought led to the bunker, and to Sam and Mary, to Jack. It was enough to cause him to hesitate and consider telling them of his plan.

He decided against it. If this were to be a suicide mission, he wouldn’t take them with him. He pushed his sentiments aside and went to his truck.

The tires crunched on the gravel and dirt on the way to the main road; and, when he reached it, the whoosh of the truck and the wind beating inside the cab through the cracked windows filled the silence. He met no other headlights until he got to the highway and headed east. 

It was nearly a straight shot to Illinois along route 36, until it turned into I-55 and led north. Castiel drove through the night, and watched the birthing and dying stars and twirling galaxies that were once as far away to him as a thought give way to the pink and orange sun rising through his windscreen. He sat through morning rush hour traffic and cursed construction sites and swiveled his head to peer at the result of traffic accidents along the highway’s shoulder, but he never stopped. It was close to eleven in the morning when he finally arrived in the woods outside of Pontiac, and the truck once again needed fuel. 

He pulled off the empty road into an old gas station with a gravel lot. Squinting in the sun as he slid out of the truck, he looked over the building, and he remembered it. It looked a little different now, and he thought the ownership had changed hands but he couldn’t be certain. But the bones of the place had remained identical to what they had been a decade ago—when he’d tried to communicate with Dean for the first time, when the windows had shattered and Dean had taken cover from the piercing hum of Castiel’s true voice.

On that day. That first day. The day Castiel had raised him from hell. 

He looked over his shoulder at the woods, wondering if the little wooden cross that had marked Dean’s grave was still there, or if the coffin was still under the earth, if the hole Dean had made when he clawed up to the surface still gaped, and if the trees and grass was still scarred from Castiel’s power. 

He went inside the gas station, the bell chiming as the door opened, and paid cash for the attendant to turn on pump number one. It was a much different experience than it had been the first time he’d visited the establishment. 

His cell phone started buzzing in his pocket almost as soon as he finished gasing up, and his gut twisted when he saw Sam’s name on the caller ID. For a second, he considered letting it go to a voicemail he’d never listen to—if Sam bothered to leave one at all.

“Sam,” he said into the speaker. With his hand held so close to his face around his phone, he smelled the sharp scene of gasoline on his fingers from the pump. 

“Cas, where the hell are you?” Sam’s voice was tinny across the line. “Jack thought you might have gone out for something, but—I mean, you’ve been gone a long time.”

“Ten hours and thirty-seven minutes,” he informed Sam, and there was a pause that was just long enough for Castiel to wonder if the line had dropped.

“Ten—? Cas, where are you?” He sounded concerned now.

Castiel sighed. He supposed there was no harm in telling him now. By the time Sam got there, all of this would likely be over. “Pontiac, Illinois.”

“Okay. Why?” And then, “Wait. That’s where—.”

“Yes,” Castiel interrupted, wanting to get straight to the point. “I lied when I said the angel didn’t know anything, Sam. She led me to a barn. It was where Dean and I first met. I’m going to meet Michael.”

As a reaction, Sam let out a breath that Castiel couldn’t quite decipher. He couldn’t tell if Sam were angry or worried. Maybe both. “Are you crazy? Cas—what makes you think he isn’t going to kill you?” 

“He might,” Castiel told him frankly. “In fact, there’s a good chance he will. But Dean is drawing him there for a reason. If I can get through to him . . . Sam, it could be enough for him to overpower Michael.” 

Sam scoffed, and Castiel could almost picture him nodding stubbornly and running his hand through his hair. “Okay. Alright. Stay where you are. I’m on my way.”

“No, Sam.”

“ _Yes_. You need back up, Cas! If I’m there, too, we might have a better chance of getting to Dean!” 

“You weren’t there that night,” Castiel reminded him. “I have to do this alone, Sam. I have to try.” 

“Cas—.” 

It was evident that Sam wasn’t going to take no for answer. But neither was Castiel. “I have to go, Sam. I’m sorry. Tell Jack I’ll be home when I can.”

The last thing he heard before he hung up was Sam frantically calling, “Cas, wait a sec—!”

It was possible that Sam would drive to Pontiac, but it didn’t matter. Even if he did get to town in time, Castiel hadn’t told him where the barn was. And there were plenty to choose from in the area. Sam would be safe, as Dean would want him to be. Sam wouldn’t go anywhere near Michael, as Dean asked. 

Castiel wouldn’t promise the same for himself. 

He got back on the highway and headed into town, weaving through the suburbs and shops that eventually gave way to downtown. He passed it all and continued to drive until, once more, there was nothing but farmland and woods. At one point, he was sure he’d overshot the abandoned farm where the barn stood and turned around to backtrack. That only brought him back into town and caused him to loop around again. 

It was strange. The topography itself was similar, and every bit of farmland looked the same, but so much had changed over the years. The town had spread further, and the farmland was pushed out; and for a moment he had the sinking feeling that maybe the barn no longer stood, until he remembered that the angel’s words had brought him there in the first place. 

He continued on, hoping to be able to find the place from memory instead of being drawn to it by a summoning spell.

After about an hour and a half of driving, he turned onto a dirt road that seemed familiar and headed that way. The wooden fence on either side of the path was termite-bitten and decaying, and the road itself was riddled with overgrowth. The sprawling land on either side was unkempt with tall, yellowing grass and wild wheat stalks. Eventually, he came to a rusted gate kept together by a chain and a weathered sign warning visitors to keep out. 

He killed the engine of his truck and squeezed past the gate on foot, certain now that he was in the right place. 

By that time, the sun was burning away the morning clouds in the sky and the loose dust under his feet spread onto his shoes and the pair of Dean’s jeans he was wearing. Everything smelled like earth, carried on the crisp autumn breeze that was still too warm for this time of year. The only sound was the occasional rustling of the wind through the grass. He was too far from the main road to hear any cars, and there was nothing else. Not even bird song. Perhaps they’d already flown south.

He kept time by the turn of the world on its axis and, by his estimation, he was walking for twenty-three minutes before the old barn came into view. It stopped him in his tracks and caused him to simply stare for a while and take it all in. The house that had once stood next to the barn was gone now—just a pile of charred wood, and Castiel assume that was due to vandalism. Luckily, the barn was left alone, save for one section of the roof that had caved in to allow the elements to pour through, and the outer walls were covered in graffiti.

Castiel was suddenly aware of his own breathing as he completed his journey towards the barn. He jiggled the handles and felt resistance from the warped wood, so held out his palm and let his grace flow through him to open the double doors. They swung to the side, and he paid them no mind and slowly stepped through.

It smelled strongly of hay and mold inside, and the sudden movement from the doors caused dust to fly upwards and off the broken light fixtures hanging from the rafters. Their particles glinted and sparkled in the sunlight that shone through the missing shingles in the roof as they drifted downwards around him.

All the sigils and warding that Dean and Bobby had put up were still there—albeit, most were faded or smudged from the rain—and there was some more spray painted words and pictures (most of them lewd) that had been added over the years. 

He stopped in the center of the barn and peered around, looking and listening for some sign of Michael or another of his mutant angels. There was no one.

“Dean,” he prayed aloud, closing his eyes into it, waiting for Dean to respond. When he didn’t, Castiel went on, “I’m in Pontiac. I’ll—I’ll wait here for you.” He didn’t know what else to do other than wait, and he didn’t know how long he’d be waiting for. Possibly minutes, or hours, or days. He had no other plan other than to wait. In fact, he had no plan at all. 

He opened his eyes to the still, silent room, and moved to sit at the edge of the wooden table, first testing it for if it would hold him. And he waited.

It was dusk when it happened, when the last rays of red light were streaming over the fields, painting the wood of the barn crimson. He heard a sound, a rustling much louder than what any small animal in the underbrush or the wind might produce. He got off his perch and stood to attention, letting his blade slip into his waiting fist. His eyes were on the doors as they opened again seemingly by their own volition.

And there was Dean.

He was framed by the dying light behind him as he walked into the barn with a gait so unlike the one Castiel was used to. Michael was carrying Dean all wrong—too straight-backed, not loose enough. Too calm. 

When Castiel looked at him, all he saw was Michael, both inside and out. His face was at once so familiar and so unrecognizable, as if he were viewing him through a mirror where every feature was flipped. And then there was the face underneath—beautiful and glorious—of God’s most holy son, of heaven’s most ferocious weapon. The face of wrath. 

But deep down inside, there was something tucked away. It sat right beneath the surface, as if Michael’s grace were only a veneer. Dean’s soul. Castiel would recognize it anywhere. He’d mapped out its swirling patterns of light before he’d even realized he’d committed them to memory.

Michael stopped walking a few feet away from him. His eyes moved languidly to Castiel’s blade.

“We both know you won’t use that,” he said, voice measured and steady, full of righteous judgment. It was all wrong. Where was the passion in it? “It won’t hurt me, Castiel. But Dean? It would kill him.”

Castiel tightened his grip on his blade, even if it was useless, and even if Michael was right. He wouldn’t use it. He just felt better with it in his hand. “Not if you heal him.”

Michael lifted his shoulders in a shrug. “I could, but—,” he lifted his hands and straightened out the lapels of his coat, “I actually like this vessel. Something tells me Dean won’t need it back.” 

As much as he tried to hide the way that made his heart plummet, Castiel thought Michael knew. It was all in the way his eyes lit up with something close to amusement.

“Dean,” Castiel said, attempting to draw Dean out. His soul was brighter than it should be for an occupied vessel, especially that of an archangel. It was possible Dean could break through the surface, if only a hand would reach into the shallows and hoist him up. “Dean, it’s me.” 

“Dean isn’t here right now,” Michael assured him, and Castiel ignored him.

“Dean, follow the sound of my voice.”

“I said he’s not here,” Michael snipped, his voice only slightly more forceful than before, but it was enough to strike the fear of heavenly host into Castiel. Some kneejerk reaction told him to be obedient, and it was more effective than Naomi’s needle. It only lasted a moment before Castiel brushed it off, but it was enough time for Michael to move on.

He paced to the side, making a half-circle around Castiel. Castiel’s glare followed him. 

“We both heard your prayer. He didn’t want to come,” Michael told him, and a hint of a smirk ghosted over his lips when he saw Castiel waver at the words. “He tried to keep me away,” he clarified. “But I thought it was time you and I had a discussion.”

Castiel narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “Why?” 

“Because of what you are.” Michael was pacing in back of him now, the soles of his dress shoes not making a sound on the fallen hay beneath them. “I’ve seen Dean’s memories of you. The fallen angel, the rebel. The one who brought Heaven to heel. It _is_ impressive, Castiel, what a seraph such as yourself has managed to do.”

He came back around and stopped fully in front of Castiel. His arms hung close to his sides. He looked at Castiel up and down as if appraising him.

“You know heaven. And you know this world—these . . . humans. I could benefit from that.”

Castiel tilted his head, his vision narrowing further, as he understood what Michael was getting at. “You want me to join your ranks?” It was ridiculous. 

“Don’t act so surprised. You may be fallen, but you’re still an angel. It’s a step up from these atrocities I’ve been herding.” His eyes snapped back up to meet Castiel’s, and Castiel almost had to look away. He saw too little of Dean in them. “Besides, the Castiel I knew from the other world was one of my best soldiers. Of course, making him so took some—let’s say, _persuasion_. It seems, even without the Winchesters’ influence, you’re quite the spirited one.”

He almost sounded proud of that, but not nearly as proud of Castiel felt. He bristled at the reminder of who he was, of what Dean made him strong enough to act upon. 

“I _won’t_ join you,” he said loudly, clearly. 

It didn’t faze Michael at all. “Not even with your need to be close to Dean?” 

“You’re not Dean.” 

Michael leveled him with a look. “Not even with his need to be close to you?” 

It halted Castiel. Whatever words he had ready died on his tongue. Michael raised his brows in victory, as if besting Castiel were some game he’d been playing. 

“I try to give him what he wants,” he went on. “It’s less of a headache for me when he’s happy and occupied. Sometimes, he’s compliant for long enough. He believes whatever fantasy is real for at least a little while—but once I try to give him you? He always knows. Right away. He can always tell it isn’t the real you.”

Castiel’s eyes were on the floor, his gaze volleying across every floorboard as he considered what Michael was saying.

“Honestly? You’d be doing me a favor,” Michael said. “Not just me, but Dean, too. Not to mention, yourself. I get a liaison and a moment’s peace, he gets the real you, and you get to be around him, even if he isn’t behind the wheel. I’d call that a win for everyone, wouldn’t you?” 

It didn’t sound like a win for anyone except Michael, but still Castiel considered it. If he went with Michael, he could find a weak spot in him. He could help Dean overpower him. 

No. Michael would see through that. And he wouldn’t abandon Sam. Dean wouldn’t want that.

“No,” he decided, even though he was tempted.

Michael sighed, like his patience was just beginning to wear thin. “Tell you what. Why don’t I let you talk to Dean? We’ll see how you feel after that.”

Even just the idea of seeing Dean again strengthened Castiel’s resolve. He felt his grace building, breaking against the barrier of his vessel’s skin like waves on a beach. It ached to again touch the soul still glimmering despite Michael’s best efforts. 

It was too good to be true. This was a trick.

“Why would you do that?” he asked, wary and hopeful and nearly breathless. 

Michael lifted his shoulders in a tight shrug. Castiel believed him to be sincere when he said, “I told you. I want Dean to be content. I’m not malevolent, Castiel, no matter what you might think. Do you want to speak with him or not?” 

Castiel hesitated, even though it took all his willpower to do so. He forced himself to think, but he couldn’t come up with a reason not to do this. It might even work in his favor. If Dean took back control, Castiel could help him keep it. This way, the initial struggle of subduing Michael was gone. Half the battle would already be won. 

He made up his mind, and nodded. At once, a fury of nerves and excitement fluttered throughout him.

Without another word, Michael lowered his head until his chin touched his chest. Castiel saw the moment the light of his grace faded to the background, allowing the kaleidoscope hues of color, like a crystal held up to the sun, of Dean’s soul slide to the front.

The tension slackened from his shoulders, morphing into something more recognizable, more natural. Dean raised his head slowly, like it was a burden to do so, and blinked the world back into focus.

“Cas?”

The breath that had gotten lodged in Castiel’s chest forced its way out in a tripping way that sounded like Dean’s name.

Dean began to sway, his legs unsteady beneath him, as if he weren’t used to his own body. Castiel called his name again and dropped his blade with a clatter to the floor. He grasped Dean by the shoulders, taking on the full brunt of his weight, and slowly guided him downwards to his knees. Castiel knelt in front of him, still holding on to him—to keep him upright, and because he wouldn’t let go even if Dean were able to stay up on his own. 

“Cas,” Dean said again, his hands coming up to cradle Castiel’s jaw. There was a weary smile on his face. “Son of a bitch, that’s really you.”

It wasn’t a question, but still Castiel felt himself nodding. “Yeah, Dean. It’s me.”

Dean gave a sound that could have been a laugh, and he pat Castiel’s cheek. “Thought I told you to stay away.”

Castiel felt himself smile. He couldn’t restrain it. “I was never very good at following orders.”

Dean barked out a thick laugh. “Don’t I know it.”

Castiel didn’t dare blink. He drank every inch of Dean in, and Dean appeared to be doing the same.

“Is that my shirt?” 

Worry knotted beneath Castiel’s ribs. He’d forgotten he’d been wearing Dean’s clothes. He thought Dean might be angry about it. “Yes,” he admitted. “I’m sorry, Dean, I—.”

“No, no, it’s cool,” Dean cut him off, and smoothed out the collar of the shirt. “Looks good on you. Nice to see you change up the tax accountant duds.”

Castiel didn’t know how to respond to that. It made him even more embarrassed, but now in a way that left him feeling warm.

“Man, I miss stuff,” Dean told him wistfully, and let out a dreamlike sigh. “Miss my clothes. My room. My baby. My necklace.”

There was pause, too heavy now. At first, Castiel didn’t understand. Dean hadn’t worn that necklace in years. It was collecting dust in the memory box under his bed. Did he not remember that? Was he confused? 

But Dean was looking at him far too pointedly to be confused. He said slowly, “You wanna borrow my clothes, you should wear that, too, Cas. You might need to find it first. Can’t remember where I left it. A drawer or something. Someplace in the darkness. You get me? You should find it.” 

Castiel shook his head as much as he could against Dean’s hands. “No, Dean.” He couldn’t do what Dean was suggesting. He wouldn’t. It would take months—years—if he managed it at all. He’d certainly gotten nowhere the first time he’d tried it. It would only be a waste of time. 

That was not how he would save Dean. He would help Dean save himself, here and now.

“Cas—.”

“Dammit Dean, _no_. You have to fight. You’re in control now. Send him away.”

“What d’you think I’ve been doing? I can’t fight him, Cas. He’s too strong.”

He brought his hand up and placed in on top of Dean’s to ground him. “I know. But you are, too.”

When Dean breathed out, the air bent and broke between them. He was practically shaking with the effort it took to stay upright, but he would have to fight a little harder for a little longer. Then, they could go home, and Dean could rest.

“I’m here now, Dean. I can help you.”

He saw a tear drop down from Dean’s nose and darken the wood beneath them. “I can’t do it, Cas.”

No. No, he couldn’t give up. That wasn’t the Dean he knew, the Dean he loved.

Castiel gritted his teeth. “You have to. You miss your things? I missed _you_ ,” he countered, and Dean cast his gaze downward. “We all do. Your mother, Jack, Sam.” 

His eyes, still red, snapped up in panic. “Sammy. He’s not—?” 

“No,” Castiel hurried to tell him. He didn’t mean to cause Dean anymore fear. “I came alone.” 

“Oh. Good,” he said, settling. There was a mixture of relief and disappointment in his eyes, and they came together to form desperation. He shoved it down, and licked his lips to say, “You shouldn’t’a come either, Cas.”

“Of course I should have,” he sighed. “You wanted me to.” 

Dean shook his head, trying to convince them both. “No. I didn’t.” 

“I don’t believe that. Why else would you draw Michael here?” 

Dean kept shaking his head, but more wearily now. His fingers bunched against the bolt of Castiel’s jaw like the touch was the only thing keeping him tethered to the world. Without it, he’d drift away. “I’m not taking him anywhere, man! He got into my head. He’s bringing to me to places from my past so I’ll stop fighting him!” He was close to a shout, but it sounded more worn out than angry. He was tired of fighting. “He’s taken me to Lawrence and Bobby’s and to the Catskills—.” 

“But _here_ , Dean,” Castiel stressed. “This is where he doles out his orders. Why here of all places?” It couldn’t have been a very happy moment for him, what took place in this barn, when all that weight had been put on his shoulders.

Dean closed his eyes. He leaned forward and knocked his forehead against Castiel’s, and let it rest there. Castiel tried not to breathe, afraid it would make him break away. 

“Because, dumbass,” he said, “this is the place it started.”

Castiel kept his eyes open. This close, he could count Dean’s freckles. He could take in Dean’s scent—musk and sandalwood. “What did? The apocalypse?” The road that brought him to this? To Michael? To the ruin of them all? 

Dean breathed out in humor. “No, Cas. You and me.”

Castiel closed his eyes now, too, and let the overwhelming radiance of Dean’s soul light the darkness behind his eyelids. He knew what he had to do. He would pull Dean from this like he did from the fire.

“That’s not where we began,” he said. He took hold of Dean’s hands and pulled them around himself in an embrace. Dean was guided easily. He fell into Castiel’s chest. “Hold on to me, Dean. Don’t let go.” He wrapped his own arms across Dean’s back. 

He pressed their cheeks together, the scratch of Dean’s stubble against his skin. He whispered into Dean’s ear the same thing he’d said in the beginning. 

“Dean Winchester. Righteous Man. Don’t be afraid. I’ve come to raise you out of the darkness. Your soul does not belong to the fires of damnation, for you are divine. Ascend now back into the light, into touch—,” he heard his voice quaver, when it had once been so steady, and he had to pause to swallow down the lump in his throat before continuing, “into sound.” 

And maybe the emotion was a blessing, because he heard Dean’s speaking into the pause. He was repeating the same words, just a step out of sync with Castiel’s voice. He didn’t know when that had begun, and it set something at the core of his grace aglow.

He pulled back slightly to look at Dean’s face. “You remember?” 

Dean closed his mouth, and nodded. “Yeah.” A smile split his features, and Castiel felt the stretch of his own. Something ballooned in his chest. “I don’t know how. But I do.” He blinked at Castiel like he was looking at him anew, and laughed. “You were really somethin’.”

“So were you.” Castiel still remembered it—his first sighting of Dean’s soul. Even in hell, tarnished and charred by the years, it still shone beneath the black. Too bright, too loud. It did it even now, and Castiel realized he could hardly see Michael’s grace anymore. Dean’s light was overpowering him. It was working.

He titled his forehead back against Dean’s, and brought his hand up to grip his shoulder. “Trust in me. Follow the sound of my voice. Follow me now so that I—.” The words got caught in his throat, but he had to finish it. “So that I may follow you.”

The words had once been for the Michael Sword, heaven’s perfect vessel, but Castiel had never followed Michael. Not really. He’d followed Dean. 

He pressed more firmly against Dean, gripping him tighter. “ _Dean_.”

Before he fully understood what had happened, Dean had tilted his head up to catch Castiel’s lips with his own. And suddenly, there was sound. It came from everywhere and everything. Castiel heard his human pulse racing in his ears, and the electric hum of his grace against the singing of Dean’s soul. He heard the creak of the wind through the rafters and the insects trilling in the tall grass. He heard the stars wheeling overhead and the water shifting deep below the earth’s surface. In his memory, there was the revving on an engine and the tune of classic rock song. It all seemed so close now, a symphony. It was all Dean, every little thing.

Dean’s eyes had gone wide, like he hadn’t planned on kissing Castiel. “Sorry,” he said, as if Castiel hadn’t wished for him to do that every day from the moment he placed a word to the emotions that filled his chest every time he looked at Dean. “I just—I had to do that. Ya know. In case I didn’t get another chance. You probably didn’t want me to—.”

Castiel interrupted him by pressing their lips back together, and showing Dean just how much he _did_ want Dean to do that. Dean’s arms wrapped tighter around him, drawing him in closer, and Castiel’s free hand moved up to cradle Dean’s head.

He lost himself in the push and pull of Dean’s mouth, in the heat of his breath and the slide of his tongue when it licked its way past Castiel’s lips. In the way their teeth grazed each other, and the little noises pulling from Dean’s throat. They kissed each other breathless, and shared the air when they parted. 

When Dean spoke again, he sounded light and out of breath. Castiel heard his grin in his voice. “You mean, we could’a been doing that this whole time?”

Castiel hummed and leaned in again, just because he could, to press a quick kiss onto him. It missed its mark slightly, landing on his bottom lip, but Dean didn’t seem to mind. 

“I thought you didn’t want—.” 

“No, I _wanted_ ,” Dean assured him, some of his signature carefree demeanor rising to the surface. “I really—I really fucking wanted, Cas.”

There was a mix of elation and sadness fighting for dominance in Castiel’s heart. Because he had finally gotten all he wanted, but too late. It all built and broke down into determination. They would have their time together. No one, not even Michael, would steal it from them. 

“Then, yes. That and more.”

Dean scoffed loudly. “Well, hell, now I’m really kicking myself.” He laughed again and took Castiel’s cheeks in his hands as he brought him in for another kiss. This one was slower, less messy. Castiel preferred it, but it also reminded him that they hadn’t the time for it right now.

Especially when he let his eyes flutter open and he saw Michael’s grace was edging back forward. He was trying to regain control.

“Dean,” Castiel said quickly after drawing away. “Listen to me—you have rescind your consent. Right now.”

Dean swallowed, the joy draining from his face. “I tried.”

“Try again.” Castiel pressed frantic kisses to Dean’s face—beneath his eyes, his nose, the corner of his mouth, his temple and the scar on his chin and between his brows. As he mouthed at Dean’s jaw, he muttered encouragements. Things like _I have faith in you_ and _You have to fight_ ; things like _I’m here with you_ and _Dean_ and _I love you_. 

But Michael’s light was burning brighter. 

His lips were on the hollow of Dean’s cheek when Dean turned his face, his nose bumping and nuzzling against Castiel’s, to catch his lips again. It was a lingering kiss, but chaste, and when it broke he said, “I’m trying, Cas. He’s too—Damn it, _no_.” 

Castiel knew he wasn’t talking to him anymore. He redoubled his grip on Dean’s shoulder. “Dean, follow the sound of my voice. Fight him, Dean.”

Dean was rattling his head back and forth like he was trying to stay awake.

“Dean, look at me. Don’t let him take you.” 

“Cas.” 

“I love you. Very much.” 

“Cas!” Dean’s voice was louder now, harsher. It was a warning. He swiftly leaned back to put space between them and shoved Castiel backwards. He nearly toppled over. Dean rose to his feet, but stayed doubled over. They were almost indecipherable now, Dean’s soul and Michael’s grace. They mixed and radiated as they battled for power. 

Slowly, Castiel stood up, eyes wide and fixed on Dean. 

“Dean, fight him!” he called. “Dean!”

Dean took in a sharp, audible breath as if he were about to plunge underwater. And then everything went still. Castiel squinted at him, trying to figure out who won. The lights had stopped swarming, but they were still too intermixed to tell.

Tentatively, hopefully, he took a step forward. “Dean?” 

And then he saw it. The colors of Dean’s soul were dimming, fading to their little corner where Michael had banished them. Something cold dripped downwards beneath Castiel’s sternum. 

Michael straightened out. 

And the world went silent again. 

“Now, wasn’t that a happy reunion?” Michael said. His eyes were still red rimmed and clear green from Dean’s tears, but his face was emotionless. “It could continue.”

Castiel pressed his lips together and looked away. He couldn’t see Michael’s face behind Dean’s. And he was tempted now, more than he was before, to take Michael up on the offer—to stay near Dean, to find a way to bring him back. 

But it would feel like betrayal, and the weight of it already sat heavy on his heart. He wouldn’t betray Dean. He loved him too much. And now that he knew the feelings were returned in some way, his resolve was only strengthened. 

“I won’t join with you,” Castiel told him firmly. 

At last, Michael looked annoyed, maybe even a little angry. His voice was hard when he said, “You should reconsider. This is a one-time offer, Castiel. If I leave now, you won’t see Dean again; and I’ll be sure you won’t hear his prayers, either.”

The threat of it made Castiel’s fists tighten at his sides, and he remembered his angel blade a few feet behind him. 

“I’ll find a way to get to him,” he swore through his teeth, “if it takes me centuries.” 

A corner of Michael’s lips twitched up, and he inhaled a humored breath. “I know you’ll try.”

There was a sudden clattering from the doors, taking them both by surprise. Sam burst through, a clay jug of holy oil in his hands. Fire was spewing from the mouth of the jug. Jack and Mary rushed in behind him, their own tankards held between there hands. Bobby came in last, a rifle no doubt loaded with his angel killing bullets in hand. 

“Hey!” Sam called, gaining Michael’s attention. He threw the jug onto the floor, making the contents splatter and the flames to leap up. Mary had run to his other side and threw down her own oil, so that Michael was standing between what roughly resembled an acute angle. All they needed was the last part of the triangle to trap him.

Castiel jumped back and swept down to retrieve his blade as Jack slid in next to him. Before he could get in place, Michael raised his hand and swiped it lazily through the air. Jack went flying backwards, losing the jug in the process. It shattered along the barn’s wall and the flames licked upwards to blacken the old wood. The sigils that Dean and Bobby had once labored over were flickering in the orange glow. 

Michael looked around to Castiel, his visage dancing in the heat’s haze. He said, “Remember, no second chances.” There was a flap of wings, and he was gone. Castiel felt Dean go with him. It emptied out the contents of his chest. 

He looked across the crackling wall of fire at Sam, who was staring at the place Michael had stood as if he were in pain. Castiel understood. To be so close—and then to have hope ripped away. Out of all the human emotions he’d dealt with over the years, this was by far the worst.

The fire was starting to spread, using the dry hay and barn wood as its kindling. Sam corrected himself and shouted, “We gotta get out of here! Hurry!” 

He, Mary, and Bobby made for the exit, and Sam hung back in the doorway to make sure everyone got out. Castiel went to Jack, who was still a little dazed as he wobbled to his feet. He flung Jack’s arm around his shoulder and rushed through the quickly closing passage in the fire. 

He could still feel the searing heat of it on his face when they made it to a safe distance. All of them turned around, and Castiel already felt himself mourning the place. The flames had nearly devoured it now. Smoke rose up through the holes in the roof and the outer walls glowed like a candle’s wick. It would burn itself out into nothing but ash in a matter of hours, maybe less. The flames hissed and roared as they rose higher. 

Castiel should not have felt its loss. It was just an abandoned building, one he’d been to twice. It was nothing in the grand scheme of things. Until he remembered what Dean had said. It was where they started. 

He hoped it wasn’t where they ended, too. 

Jack slid his arm off of Castiel to stand on his own, and Sam came to settle at Castiel’s side. He dragged his palm down his mouth as he looked at the barn with growing despondency. He’d found the place much more quickly than Castiel had anticipated, but perhaps he shouldn’t have been surprised. Sam had always been resourceful.

“He say anything?” Sam asked, speaking so low that Castiel barely heard him over the whoosh of the flames. “Michael?” 

Castiel shook his head. He briefly considered telling Sam about Michael’s offer, but what use would that be? “I saw Dean. Michael let me speak to him.” 

It was enough to make Sam’s head turn quickly towards him, eyes wide and searching. “He—What happened?” 

Castiel closed his eyes. He could still feel the press of Dean’s lips on his mouth, and the feel of him under his hand. He could still hear Dean’s voice in his head, whispering the words of a memory he should have forgotten. 

When he opened his eyes again and turned to Sam, he told him balefully, “He’s fighting.” Something like pride passed over Sam’s face, but only momentarily. “But Michael’s hold on him is strong. I—.” He looked back at the barn just in time to see the roof cave in. He shook his head. “I couldn’t save him.”

He heard Sam sniff in sharply before facing forward again and blinking rapidly. “It’s okay. We’ll—we’ll keep on trying.”

That was all they could do—try. But maybe it was time to try another way. Dean had a plan, one that could work in theory, though it gave Castiel no hope and even less solace. “I know what we have to do,” he said, getting Sam’s attention again. “Dean told me—in a way that Michael wouldn’t be able to understand. We have to find God.”

Sam’s brow collapsed into skepticism. “Chuck? Cas, we haven’t heard from him in years. Even if we could find him, he wasn’t too gung-ho on helping out the last time. What makes you think he’ll help now?” 

“I don’t,” he answered plainly. He’s lost faith in his Father long ago; and perhaps one day that would stop hurting. “But Amara will. She cares for Dean. She’ll push Michael out like she took Lucifer from me.” 

Sam let out a thoughtful breath. He didn’t seem thrilled by the plan, and neither was Castiel. It was an impossible task set before them; but Dean had given him direction, and he would follow. He’d follow no one else.

“If we find Chuck, we find Amara. We save Dean.”

And there was his mission: find God. He’d been here before.

They’d all been here before.

Sam lingered for a moment longer before turning back to the rest of the group. Behind him, Castiel vaguely heard Bobby say, “We better get going before the fire department shows up. Someone’s bound to have seen the flames by now." 

Castiel didn’t want to leave just yet. It felt wrong to. He thought he should stay until the barn was gone completely. Something in his chest tugged him towards it. 

But the others were already trudging back down the dirt path to the gate, where the cars were parked. Castiel felt a slender hand touch his shoulder, and he didn’t have to look to know it was Mary. She had a gentle, soothing presence when she wanted to, much like her eldest son. 

“Castiel?” she wondered, and she didn’t have to ask the rest of the question. Castiel heard it. 

“I’m fine,” he lied, because that what people do when they’re anything but. Still, he couldn’t help but think there was some truth to it, even marginally. Under his palm, his still felt the muscles of Dean’s shoulder tensing and shifting; on his lips, he still felt Dean’s kiss. He loved Dean. Dean loved him. 

He didn’t feel quite so lost anymore.

He said, “I found something to hold on to.”

 

**END.**

**Author's Note:**

> Title is a reference to the song "Come On Get Higher" by Matt Nathanson. Highly recommend [this cover](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dBO3XS7GXjs).
> 
> If you enjoyed this work, please consider supporting me on [Buy Me a Coffee](https://www.buymeacoffee.com/emmbrancs) or be the first to read my fics and receive exclusive bonuses with [Patreon](https://www.patreon.com/emmbrancs). Thanks so much for reading!


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